Late Snow
by imaginativefig
Summary: (A late snow in spring can kill...) Lestrade has been grieving a death for a long time. Molly's decided to let a cherished dream go. And they've just lost someone very important to both. Maybe it's time for different dreams. (Or make the world look brand new.)


All right, this is far from what I'd consider my best. But I was in the mood to write'n'post and didn't feel like mucking about with things like proper grammar. Call it a stylistic choice (sounds better than "Absolute laziness"). With the exception of italics and the paragraph breaks, I changed almost nothing from the very first draft. So basically you're getting a glimpse at how my writing always looks before I tweak it. Thanks for reading!

Late Snow

~Lestrade~

_That time of year again._

When the blossoms exploded on the trees and the birds sang, and his heart fell to the bottom of his chest. When everything was supposed to be renewed and fresh and alive, he felt old and cold and miserable, like the unseasonable snow storm that had howled in tonight.

For a long time now, this day had been associated with pubs; with smoke and noise and the frothy pints that dulled, but never quenched. Associated with company, so many people that he gathered around him, bringing them to himself with jokes and free beer and begging and later on with his fists, but they never made up for the one person that was missing. The one blonde, laughing, exuberant spirit that had been all of spring and life and love to him, before that fatal day. Before his hair had gone grey.

And now, there was one more reason to swallow that pint. Black curls and a sharp voice and brilliant mind and that strange, fatherly feeling, all gone. Gone to join the blonde one in his memories.

~Molly~

She knew before they told her. It was inevitable really. She'd known for a long time, the recognition dawning slowly, creeping and clinging closer with every subtle rejection that she'd tried to rationalize away: he could never have a normal life, or a normal death. His death, like his life, would be unpredictable, dramatic, and it wouldn't be with her.

They would never have a normal relationship. Not for them was the little house with the happy laughter of children and the gentle aging made tolerable by steady honest love. Not even the contented pair-bond, cuddling close and being each other's best friend, without children and free to chase adventure. There was only the unplanned, sudden falling into bed, the unexpected fulfillment of lust, long-standing on her side, born of their forced close living situation on his, and the awkward continuation of the friendship that grew less awkward, but more disappointing, as it became clear that friends with benefits was as far as they could ever go.

She had got tired of the little rejections of further intimacy and his resuming of the old status quo when he came back to life. He showed up after a case with a black eye and the trademark smirk that used to be so irresistible, expecting her to fall back into his arms and give him the affection he had become used to. But he had ignored her for two whole weeks while in Romania with John, not even sending her a text message and it hurt. She'd shut the door in his face. The benefits stopped.

She never regretted closing that door, both the real and the metaphorical one. Except for the space of two heartbeats, when they told her that he was dead. Really and properly dead; she hadn't been there to save him that time. Their relationship had been a bell curve, she mused. Once he was not at all a part of her life, then had grown to be her whole world, then gradually faded out of it, until he was gone forever. She knew before they told her; because Sherlock (at least the ideal version she fell in love with) had died long ago.

~Lestrade~

Greg pushed the pint away. _17 years._ 17 years was too damn long to mourn. And now he was cut to the heart again; would he be here in 17 years more? 17 years more of swilling, trying to stop the remembrance. The deep pain had faded long ago, leaving a grey scar that hurt if touched, but it wasn't the reason he drank. _Time to stop kidding yourself._ He dropped a wad of money on the bar and reached for the door. The cold air hit him with a shock, but he didn't go back for his coat. _No more turning back. They wouldn't have wanted that._ He allowed himself to think, really think, about them, the blonde one with the bright spirit and the intense one that snapped at him and had been almost a good man. Lestrade walked through the snow and he let the tears fall for the last time in 17 years, and the first time in 2 days.

~Molly~

Molly lit a candle, watching it play over the worn spines and the shiny new ones, the books she'd always loved and the ones she had yet to make acquaintance with. They were all hers, hers to keep and tend, and finally to send away with others.

Molly's Coffee and Books. Simple name; the start of what she hoped would be a simple life. No more bodies in her future, no more death, no more excitement, no more helping solve cases, no more feeling how empty her morgue was without him. No. Just a quiet little place, winding and a little closed-in, basically a collection of nooks with lots of windows and soft armchairs and old sofas, and the scent of coffee over all.

Molly wrapped a crocheted afghan around herself, making a mental note to call the shy young girl with the colorful hat back and tell her that she was welcome to bring her hooks or needles or whatever it was that they used and give lessons there, as long as she was quiet. _Maybe_ _I'll even take up the craft myself_ she thought as she settled into the sofa to keep vigil; what for, she didn't know. The snow was falling thickly outside, it was visible falling in huge silent flakes past the uncurtained window. Tomorrow the world would look totally different. And someday, maybe it could even be a happy one.

~Lestrade~

The detective inspector trudged through the deepening snow. _Of course there would be no cabs about when you needed them._ Anyway he'd accidentally put all his cash down on the bar, instead of just paying his tab. Maybe he had been an idiot and he should have stayed in the pub. Should he go back?

A tiny light shone up ahead, not with the bland electric glare of the streetlight, but a friendly yellow flickering in a side window, barely visible through the flakes that were beginning to shower down faster. Maybe someone was still in that little shop. Some poor sod working late? No, the lights would be on for work. He drew up at the door, able to make out the sign by the ugly but useful streetlight. 'Coffee and Books' it said. There was a name too, but all he registered was Coffee. Greg could really use a cup of coffee right now. He peered in the window, sure that the little yellow light was coming from inside. And by all that was wonderful, so was a delicious wafting smell of strong coffee. He knocked three times. Then four. _Damn. Going to have to continue on home in the cold._ Five times. He turned away, and then the door opened and light streamed out.

~Molly~

It was him. She knew him, though not well. Silver hair, that perpetually tired expression, the smile that seemed not quite happy. He didn't smile now though. His dark brown eyes squinted in the light and looked surprised.  
"Sorry to bother you… Doctor Hooper, isn't it?"

"No, I'm just Molly now. Hello, Detective Inspector."

"Not on duty, so that makes me 'Just Greg'."

She nodded, acknowledging the little joke with a slight smile, waiting for him to explain what exactly he was doing on her doorstep at nearly midnight.

"Look, uh, I know this is odd, but I've just come from the pub and I can't get a cab to save my life, and it's really cold out here. Any chance you'd have some hot coffee to share? I'll only stay long enough to warm up a little, then be off home, I promise."

He looked so like a shivering stray dog with sad eyes and just that slight hint of hope that he wouldn't be kicked out again and she'd always had a soft spot for the sad ones.

Molly stepped aside and dragged the trailing afghan with her. "Greg, won't you come in?"

The green door shut on the old life, and the midnight bells rang in a new one.

Like it? Were you hopelessly enraged by the horrendous grammar and unable to comprehend the plot? Are you a Lestrolly shipper and want to hug me? Or a Sherlolly shipper that wants to kill me? Leave a review and let me know! (Though I would appreciate the Grammar Nazis refraining from yelling at me.) Thanks for reading!


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